


hedonism

by thishazeleyeddemon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Adam: on the STARS we're gonna get you some opinions bro, Affection, Anxiety, Communication, Generally hanging out with your loved one and learning stuff you like, Light Angst, M/M, Michael-centric (Supernatural), Painting, Past Abuse, Shopping, freedom is scary but good, i debated putting sex in this but listen. too easy, if there's one thing these idiots do. It's communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29850126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishazeleyeddemon/pseuds/thishazeleyeddemon
Summary: HEDONISM - n. 1. The pursuit of pleasure; indulgence of the senses. 2. The doctrine that to seek pleasure and comfort is a chief good in life.Being able to indulge your wants and needs for the first time is a heady experience. Luckily, Michael's pretty good at adjusting these days.
Relationships: Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	hedonism

**Author's Note:**

> Much like Michael in this fic, I wrote this purely for self-indulgence purposes lmao

1\. Michael doesn't get tired the way Adam does.

He never feels fatigue, never feels the slow, leaden ache he's picked up secondhand from Adam's memories of long nights pouring over textbooks again and again. He never falters, never gets tired.

But he does get _bored._

It's another sign of his father's cruelty, he thinks. It takes him longer to get bored than a human, but he does get bored. If Father had wanted an obedient robot, he should have at least made the constant watching from afar, the sterile halls, the endless, grinding work a little less mind-numbingly dull.

No one can really work forever, but angels certainly had tried. Endless labors, endless guarding, training, training training over and over and over again - they had tried to work forever. _Michael_ had tried to work forever. He'd hated the feeling that not having work to do gave him almost as much as he'd hated the work itself - not that he'd admitted to having feelings about either. Not having work to do filled him with this restless, anxious feeling - why was he, if there was nothing for him to do?

He knew why now, of course.

Everything is warm, as he surfaces out of dream. He can't sleep unless he borrows Adam's brain with its melatonin production (because he was a tool, an object, and tools do not get breaks), but Adam doesn't mind; says it's a strange sensation to be tired-but-not but not a bad one, and often sleeps with him besides. He blinks when he feels Michael's consciousness stir, and closes his book (folding down a corner of a page to keep his place).

"Hello," he says, his voice soft and calm. He's content right now, the various melodies that make up the inner song of him for once, together in tune. Michael feels much the same, too warm and relaxed to pull enough of himself together for speech, so he pulls a few tendrils of Adam's soul to him and hums out a greeting.

"I can tell you slept well," Adam laughs. The song of him shifts golden and light like musical bubbles. He's happy, pleased Michael is comfortable, affectionate at his projecting his feelings instead of talking. It still feels so new it's almost a shock, the warm rush of Adam's affection hot and bright and all-encompassing. He wants to sink into it, let it surround him, push the world away.

So he does. He moves up a bit, farther out of the darkness of their shared mind, and curls himself around Adam's heart, basking in the wash of love like a snake sleeping in the sunshine and sending his own back. Adam sighs happily, pressing one hand against his heart.

They sit like that for a while.

Michael hardly even notices it when he drifts off to sleep again, as easily as a dandelion seed drifting to the ground. He can rest now, he can sleep now, he doesn't have to be aware for every second of creation anymore - and he fully intends to take advantage of this opportunity.

2\. Food is…a bit touch-and-go.

 _Adam_ likes eating very much. He likes different tastes, he likes his stomach being full, he likes trying new things. His favorite foods are still burgers and fries and such things, the foods of his childhood, but he's willing to try new things at least once.

Michael is a little less enthusiastic.

He's found a few foods he can tolerate - mostly soups, hot and spicy. In truth, though, eating just feels very strange. Chewing is a weird, mushy experience that makes him feel like he needs to wash his mouth out, but the experience of swallowing is in itself bizarre and strange. Taking a substance inside yourself, to convert it into more of you. The notion is very odd, and it only feels odder with his new familiarity with humans.

He plans to ignore it - Adam was so excited to show him new foods - but as it turns out, Adam is more perceptive than he thought.

"Can I ask you something?" Adam turns to him as they walk down the street in Italy. Michael blinks.

"Sure."

Technically, they're close enough Adam could just ask - but they always make sure to say things like that. It's important to ask, to be careful. Adam nods at the acquiescence. He has a gelato cone in his hand. He regards it a little strangely, before turning to Michael and asking, "Do you not like eating?"

Michael jumps, then breathes out slowly through his teeth. He could lie, of course - but they promised not to lie to each other. "I don't," he admits.

Adam nods slowly. "Why didn't you tell me?" He isn't mad, isn't shouting - but Michael squirms anyway. He feels suddenly, horribly guilty. It's a familiar feeling, welling up like poison.

"Well…" he starts hesitantly. "You were so happy to show me different foods…"

There's a pause, tense and still, before Adam sighs. He sounds sort of fondly exasperated, like he can't help but feel affection for Michael even as he's annoyed at him. A drip of ice cream runs down his cone - he scoops it up with one finger and puts it in his mouth before speaking.

"Michael, the point of that was to find things you _like,"_ he says. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to."

Michael feels himself relax. He doesn't know what he was expecting - this is _Adam,_ of course Adam wouldn't try and do anything - but he feels calmer all the same. "I don't always dislike eating," he offers. "I don't mind most soup. It's just chewing that feels -" He trails off, not sure how to articulate his weird revulsion.

Adam nudges him with his shoulder, a quick, affectionate gesture. "You don't have to eat anything like that, then. I wouldn't make you do that."

Technically, he couldn't make Michael do very much at all, but Michael is sometimes painfully aware of his own tendencies to want to please - he knows what he's like and how that could go. Suddenly grateful for Adam all over again, he leans forward and gives him a kiss, right behind his ear.

Adam makes a soft noise and ducks his head, face flushed. He's so affectionate, but he gets embarrassed at reciprocation so _easily_ still, all these years later. Michael feels so fond his Grace almost aches.

To cover his own embarrassment, Adam raises his ice cream (which has melted more in the summer sun; Michael refreezes it quietly) to his mouth before stopping.

"Is this okay?" He asks, turning his head.

Michael nods, threading his arm through Adam's free one. "I don't mind _you_ eating. I don't have to feel it. And I like you doing things you enjoy, as well."

Adam smiles, using their interlocked arms to tug Michael against him. He leans his head on Michael's shoulder for a moment, before taking a bite from his gelato.

They walk down the street towards the setting sun.

3\. One of his clearest, oldest memories, is the first Star's creation.

His memory never grows dim. Still, the first star somehow manages to stand out even amid all the rest. He remembers the swirl of dust in the void as it began to take form, the crushing pressure of it, the way the light had cut through the darkness around it like a knife, giving it shape and form. Even then, he hadn't been able to quash his awe and pride at the sight. He had _made_ that. Father had given him the specifications, or the concept, at least, but he was the one who had sculpted it and there it was, shining and strong in its glory. He could have sat and watched it forever.

He's shown it to Adam, obviously. It was one of the first things he'd shown him, when he started reciprocating their whole storytelling arrangement. Adam had been so awestruck Michael had forgotten he wasn't supposed to care, and the two of them had talked about astronomy and the creation of stars for - oh, who knows how long, Michael had definitely been too occupied to check.

He had some scattered other memories that weren't painful - the earth, green and growing like nothing else, an old, old memory of racing Raphael through the Andromeda Galaxy, that sort of thing - but the first star stood out among them all. He'd crafted other things, afterwards - had crafted _many_ things, God not being enormously interested in the minutiae of how his universe was supposed to work - but the star he'd made almost alone, and was one of the only memories that was almost entirely uncolored by grief or betrayal or shame, one of the only parts of creation that felt like his.

So, when Adam drags him to a painting class ("come on, it'll be fun! I never got to do a lot of this before"), Michael surprises both of them by knowing what he wants to paint.

It's hard to get it to look right, with paint and paper - he scraps the first attempt, irritated by the lack of resemblance the image on the paper had to the star. The colors were off, the shine nowhere near as bright. He looks over at Adam, who's quietly painting a tree by a river.

"Does -" Michael starts.

Adam looks over. "Yeah?"

"Does it have to look real?"

"I don't think it has to look any specific way," Adam shrugs. "One of my old college friends said it's sometimes better if it doesn't look photorealistic, because then people know _you_ made it."

Michael considers this. It seems sensible - humans make art to communicate, as far as he can tell, and it's probably better, to know where a message comes from.

He looks down at the paper.

Paper might not be able to contain his memory of that first, brilliant light, the furnace of creation. But perhaps it can contain what it felt like to see it.

He picks up the paintbrush.

After a while, Adam comes over to watch. He doesn't say anything, only sits quietly and watches as Michael lays down swirls of color.

The final creation is a paper that's almost all stark black, except for the glowing orb at the very center. Swirls of color - the last remnants of the dust cloud that formed it - surround it. Beams of light shoot away, piercing the black like a knife through butter.

It does not look like the first star. But it looks like what seeing the first star felt like.

"That's beautiful," Adam says softly. His hand hovers just above the surface of the paper, like he can't stop himself from wanting to reach out and touch. "That's wonderful, Michael, really."

Michael breathes out slowly. He's never done anything like this before. Creation that wasn't, creation as a love letter to the universe…the notion is foreign. The notion is good. "You think so?" He doesn't know why he bothers to ask, when he can plainly tell Adam does.

Adam doesn't say anything about it, only wraps his arms around Michael and presses a kiss to his temple. "Of course I do. It's lovely." His voice is gentle, and warm.

"Well -" Michael says awkwardly, leaning into the touch, "Maybe there's a purpose to art, after all."

Adam laughs.

4\. Michael had never been the beautiful one, before.

He hadn't been meant to be, is the thing. It's not like he is _ugly,_ or anything - Adam would be cross with him for thinking such a thing - but he's…plainer, somehow. Fewer colors than say, Lucifer. His wings are a plain white, and don't match the rest of him.

He just…hadn't been beautiful. Did a sword need decoration, or did it need a sharp edge?

Now, though, things are different. He can think about his appearance now, without being condemned for vanity. He can think about how he looks, if how he looks matches how he feels, without having to deal with anyone else's opinions on the matter. He can be a little vain now, if he wants. It's _allowed._

That doesn't mean being set loose in a department store and told to look for clothing he liked feels any less nerve-wracking.

Of course, there's no real danger here. Everything is fine, and there's not even a wrong answer he could potentially choose. He _wanted_ this, _suggested_ this - they had both wanted different clothes after eleven hundred and forty-nine years of wearing the same ones, after all.

But there's something about the choice that feels daunting, somehow. Like just by doing something like casually picking out something he wants to wear, he's doing something wrong, something transgressive.

In the middle of a Target at ten AM on a Wednesday is a difficult place to feel suddenly, terribly bleak. He stands in front of the jewelry display, and feels a wash of anxiety and sorrow. Maybe he's not meant for choices. Maybe this is too much for him. Maybe he's not -

\- _Stop torturing yourself,_ Adam chides. _You just need practice. Would you have learned how to swordfight if you gave up just because it was hard at first?_

This does help. Michael straightens up slightly, the howling voices inside his head growing a little quieter. He can fight. He's _good_ at that. If it's fighting himself he has to do, then so be it. And it's just clothes, anyway. It's not like anyone but Adam is going to care, and Adam is only going to care about him doing what he wants. He can do what he wants now. It's allowed, he reminds himself. He's allowed.

_Why don't we go look at jackets, first?_

That said, some structure, some direction, is still welcome. _Look for a new jacket you like_ is more concrete, more real. _Got it,_ he tells him.

The jackets in the men's section aren't very colorful, he's disappointed to find. A lot of grey and black and brown, with a little bit of green and blue. There's more to the store, he knows, but well - one place at a time.

He finds one he likes after a few minutes of searching. It's a brighter blue than most of the others, a little darker than the color of the sky. The fabric is soft, and lined on the inside with white wool. It looks comfortable.

 _Do you want that one?_ Adam prompts before Michael can talk himself out of it.

Michael swallows down the _no_ that rises up - it's nothing but the ghost of how he used to think. It's not real. _I do. What do you think?_

 _I like it too,_ Adam considers, and Michael relaxes slightly before he realizes it. He hadn't _really_ thought that Adam would censure him for something as simple as wanting a nice jacket, but old habits, old fears, die hard. _Let's get it._

It turned out to not quite fit once they'd bought it, but that was nothing a few alterations couldn't fix. It was warm, and heavy around Michael's shoulders. He gives into a childish impulse and spins around, looking at himself in the mirror. Adam giggles.

 _I like it. We look good,_ he says.

Michael takes a deep breath. Maybe once he would have gotten in trouble for vanity for this, but there's no one here who could do that now, and really, what does it matter if someone's husband buys a coat he likes? There's no one who would care. It's not important.

How nice, to not be important.

"We do."

5\. There is one thing the myths got right - angels sing.

Angels sing constantly, actually. It's one of the things they have in common with humans. Michael had sung a lot before he met Adam.

It was what they sang _about_ that was different.

Angels sang hymns and battle songs. Hymns to Chuck, mostly, but there were a few to the archangels as well (Lucifer loved that, tried to get them to be sung as much as possible. Michael had always hated it). Besides that, there were some battle songs, songs to drum up fighting spirit, songs to keep time.

That was it.

Human music was different.

After listening to Adam's music a lot (and Adam had _a lot_ of songs he liked), Michael had come to a conclusion - it was _all_ hymns, in one way or another.

Adam had laughed when Michael had said this, but as Michael explained his reasoning, his expression had changed. It was all to honor something or another, wasn't it? Love or loss or the world itself, freedom or family - these songs were a form of honoring the world, honoring themselves, telling other humans _it's alright - I see it too. I feel it too, you are not alone._

They didn't have to be made _well,_ necessarily, but they were hymns. If you had to ask Michael, it was a better way of doing hymns than angels'.

Humans sang their hymns whenever, too. Angels only sang at ceremonies, or during war, but humans sang all the time, just to sing. Once, Michael would have found that silly.

It's still a little silly. But in a different way now.

Michael doesn't even remember the name of the song he's singing along to right now, doesn't even remember if Adam told it to him. Their computer is playing it from where it's been abandoned on their couch, a fast, energetic beat that rings through the room

Adam throws his head back as he spins around, uncoordinated in his joy. He's laughing and singing at the same time, as best as he can, face flushed with exertion. Michael reaches out and catches his hand to spin him around like a ballet dancer, and he goes happily, spinning around before pulling Michael to him to plant a kiss on his nose before twirling him around in the same way.

Angels sing. They don't dance.

They have to look absolutely silly right now, barely paying attention to rhythm as they are, but Michael couldn't even bring himself to pretend to care. Sunlight spills through the window and maybe Michael's thinking too much like a human these days, but it's like he can feel it inside himself too, filling up all those dark, guilt-filled spaces with light.

 _Life is good,_ he thinks distantly, as he watches Adam smile and laugh as he fumbles through the next verses, totally unconcerned with singing it "properly", whatever that would mean. _This is good._

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> listen. Michael enjoying a free life is in my head rent-free ALL the time. 
> 
> this was just for fun so it's more unpolished than some of the other stuff i've posted but I hope y'all liked it anyway. be like Michael do something fun for yourself


End file.
